


On A Snowy Evening

by PandaNova



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:56:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaNova/pseuds/PandaNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson and Holmes go out to enjoy the first snowfall. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On A Snowy Evening

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for this fandom, so if you see any problems with characterization please let me know. Enjoy!

She is awake early this morning, but no jog is planned. Instead she sits in her empty room in the brownstone, staring out at the large flakes as they fall past her window. The emptiness of her room better broadcasts the cold desolation of winter’s chill, oddly poetic. She smiles as she leans up and curls her blankets around her, armor against the oncoming cold, and she enjoys the chilled air of indifference that she pulls around herself in the same way. Dark eyes simply watch the bright white cover everything and build up on the corners of her sill. For a moment she is tempted to thrust open the window, invite winter into her room properly, to let herself really feel the bite of the cold. Sensibility demands better, and when she lives with a reckless genius. . .well one of them has to pick up the mantle of reasonable and sensible. 

“Watson!” It pierces the revelry like a blade and leaves her reeling for a few moments as she hears his feet take the steps two at a time. The door thrust open without his usual knock for the sake of presumed politeness, and he propels himself inward without so much as a cursory look about. 

“Ah good, you’re awake.” He says it in a tone that says he knew.

“You could have knocked.” she says, her tone exasperated.

“No need! It was quite obvious you had awoken some time prior. You should consider instead that I waited an entire fifteen minutes before coming up here.” He has her closet open now, rifling around within it as Joan leans up again, this time her look is screaming irritation.

“I can pick out my own clothes.” Her tone is biting.

“Not without delaying us for a further fifteen minutes as you desperately attempt to choose what to wear.” he responds.

“Sherlock -” the tone is a warning and he stops. Face turning to her with a look that speaks volumes, he does not understand her irritation. “Just - tell me what this is about?” 

He retreats from her closet, with clothing in hand, and thrusts them out to her. “Well I thought with this being the first snow of the year, we might wish to partake in seeing it.”

“You want to go for a walk?” She asks, she is still agitated but her inexhaustible patience is winning.

“Quite so, Watson.” He says, while giving a grin of victory as she begins to force herself out of bed.

“In the snow?” she asks.

“Yes.” He is sure she is getting at something now, and he can see the smirk form on the edges of her lips.

“With no shoes on?” He looks taken aback with this question, before he looks down and notices that he had not only forgotten shoes in his haste to stir her but socks as well.

“I will have plenty of time to get proper footwear once you are dressed.” He says this also as if it was something he knew, but this time she knows from his momentary hesitation that he is lying. “Speaking of proper footwear, do not embarrass either of us by wearing your usual attire. We shall be walking on ice, and you shall only have yourself responsible if you wear something unreasonable.” 

He evacuates before he is able to be hit with the jeans she thrusts at him, but her look seemed to be clear enough. Opening his mouth about her shoes, she’s been in New York her whole life she knows how to walk around in snow, even in ‘unreasonable footwear’. Still she dresses appropriately, layers and not those jeans he grabbed, and is ready in record time. She is about to move into the, only, bathroom when instead she is intercepted by Holmes. 

“No need to pretty yourself up Watson!” His voice is commanding, and he is annoyed when she is unmoved. Instead she has crossed her arms in front of herself and is, in fact, a picture of unmovable. He is distressed for only a moment, given away by the slight widening of his eyes, before he sets his shoulders. “We need to get out there before the plows come.” 

She is still unmoving, in fact her right hip has now cocked out two more degrees. Not a good sign. He goes with the only method he knows will work, he softens up and gives her a meaningful look. This look is compassionate and pleading, he cinches the deal with the very soft, “Please?” which follows. She acquiesces, as she always does, and he quickly guides her downstairs.

He has a coat and hat already waiting, and quickly places his own before assisting her. They don their shoes in the same companionable silence they always have. He notices that she has taken his suggestion toward her chosen footwear and no heels are in sight. In fact, he was not even aware she owned shoes such as these, completely utilitarian and without the slightest care for aesthetic value. Still he does not bring attention to this for fear that she will change her mind.

As they cross toward the final threshold that will relay them out into the cold of the storm, he feels her hand touch upon his shoulder. It holds him, but without force. In their partnership the mere act of touch is enough to convey meaning. It is rare, and he succumbs to it’s beckoning. He turns slowly, and his blue-gray eyes immediately lock onto her own. It reminds her of when they first met, back when the intensity of that gaze would make her uncomfortable, and she quickly raises the red and navy checkered scarf. He takes it with slight smile, and places it properly against his neck. He wears no cap, but they each trust the scarf will keep him warm enough.

They enter into the winter chill with the same determined pace in which Holmes walks in to anything. For a moment he finds himself faltering, for he has no place to be, but when Joan catches up to him he has decided. They will walk to the park, and take in the reprieve of the sudden storm. Joan surprises him by being able to keep up with him. Most people are rushing to catch up with him, unable to keep up with his sudden changes in direction, but after several months she seems to have picked up on his cues.

“Where are we going?” She asks. He is surprised by the question and stops suddenly. Normally she would not question, but perhaps it is his own wavering that gives him away.

“I believe we are attempting to be spontaneous.” He says, giving her the truth. She knows him too well to let him lie. He begins his pace again and she at the same time. This is surprising, he had expected a few quickened steps, a momentary pause. She never ceases to surprise.

Joan is smirking now, her eyes watching him as he crosses another street. The snowplows have not made it here yet, and so few cars dare the cold. It is a weekend besides, only those who are forced to work weekends are out in this cold, and the subways still run. The crunch of the snow beneath her feet is one of the few constant sounds, everything else feels muffled and far off. No, perhaps she is the one who is far off. 

They walk once more in silence until Holmes finally stops at the small park. A few children are here playing, but overall it is quiet. They cannot sit on the benches, so instead they stand between dead trees overlooking the alien landscape.

“You’re not very good at spontaneous.” Joan is smirking, amused, as she hands over this obvious fact.

“I loathe it generally, careful deduction and calculation is infinitely more valuable.” He is frowning, his blue eyes looking out into the storm. 

“Is that so?” she tips her head, hair falling to the side beneath her cap and dark eyes look toward the consulting detective. He is fidgeting now, this is obviously not satisfying. “Come on,” she threads her arm through his and gives a slight tug that drags him out of his thoughts.

“Where are we going?” his voice is slightly concerned, but he follows none the less.

“Actually being spontaneous.” She answers, but gives him no more than that.

They go ice skating in central park, where an outdoor rink had been set up long before the coming storm. Apparently they do it every year. He had never noticed. He is rubbish at it, but Joan is infinitely patient. She gets him hot coffee, and cocoa for herself, to warm up afterward. They eat at the first restaurant she sees that looks interesting. It’s Moroccan cuisine. The smells are brilliant, and even though it is rather posh nobody comments on his raggedy t-shirt that he threw on beneath his coat. 

He is shocked when Joan eats with her hands, and she laughs at his stares. He tells her that eating with her hands is barbaric, and she simply carries on without him. Eventually he too dares, but he does so begrudgingly. 

As night falls they return to the Brownstone. Sherlock has put together a fire, Watson has still not mastered the proper way to place kindling to gain a long lasting exothermic reaction, and Sherlock has taken to lounging in front of it. He lays with bare feet, and without a shirt (both far too damp from the day to be comfortable) as close to the fireplace as he dare. He stares at the ceiling of the Brownstone, imagining the finite possibilities of thermodynamics. Watson disappeared upstairs to change the moment they returned, but he refuses to be separated from the fire by such propriety. He is pleasantly surprised when Watson returns, with tea no less, but also joins him upon the floor. Laying slightly apart, but mirroring his own position.

“Are you feeling better now?” Joan’s voice is relaxed, and on the edge of it is the exhaustion brought on by the day’s events.

“Whatever do you mean, Watson?” he responds, deflecting.

“You can’t make really expect me to believe we went out into the snow because you wanted to go for a walk?” She has rolled onto her side now, her dark eyes staring into him. He can see her shoulder and part of the floor obscured by her hair, it still looks damp from the snow. He looks up the ceiling again.

“I do. I quite enjoy the first snow of the season. It makes me think of Keats and Frost.” his response is clipped, he can feel the roll of her eyes.

“You’re so full of it.” She lays back again, and quiet stretches between them. “You know, I never could figure out why you spend so much time staring at ceilings.” She says after some time, he is surprised she hasn’t fallen asleep.

“It’s blank, nothing for the mind to focus on.” He answers her question, though he is sure she already knows the answer.

“I thought that’s what the wall of crazy was for?” she asks.

“Sometimes you need to look away from the object of your obsession to gain clarity.” In silence they both stare up into the nothing. Maybe tonight they’ll both gain clarity.


End file.
